The Curse of the Scottish Play
by Obscure Bird
Summary: Mac and Gruoch, the Macbeth's demonic children, raise hell in the theater. A lot.
1. Mac and Gruoch

The Curse of the Scottish Play  
  
Rain drowned the sound of the rehearsal where the actors had met in an empty old shack for extra practice. Things were not going well at all for there performance. It seemed like curse of the Scottish Play was trying to outdo itself. They were hopelessly behind schedule, with little chance of catching up.   
  
A wonderful play, thought the stranger. witchcraft, bloodshed, the good side wins. Like Hell.   
  
He stood in a shadowy corner, watching the actors work. He hated the play, and Shakespear. It was sickening how far someone would twist the facts around to make a good story. Honestly, he thought Macbeth defeating the tyrant Duncan in battle, and fighting the evil, scheming Malcolm's attempts to reclaim the throne before the coward killed him and his stepson Lulach, the rightful heir to the throne, made a perfectly fine story.   
  
But that was just him. He looked at the actors. There were no props or fights going on for the curse to interfere with, so he left. The rain soaked the blue jeans and T-shirt his sister insisted he wore. She said he had to blend in, that if he was too obvious, he'd ruin everything. No kilt for poor Mac.  
  
He hated his name. Not Mac, his full name. Macamfearnachtill. Not only was it a mouthfull, it was a damned mockery of him and his family. It was Gealic for "son of he who will not return." It was a big joke in the demon clan, Tiamhaidh. They named him when he was a seventeen year old demon, ready to march off and fight against Malcolm. Of course after he'd killed the ones who named him, the others didn't find it quite as funny, so now they called him Mac, or used his father's name, Macbeth.  
  
Ironic. The son and daughter of two noble and honorable Scots were demons. Mac and his sister Gruoch weren't sure how it happened themselves. All they knew is that they died before they were born and their souls came back as demons. ( Whatever you're thinking, they had a mother, so it counts as being born of woman. ) They were raised by the Tiamhaidh Clan, who kept their parents' identities a secret, until they were named.   
  
He walked to the empty cabin where he and Grouch were staying. It was probably somebody's summer-home, right on the edge of the woods, but they didn't really care. They had work to do, and needed somewhere to stay, so whoever owned the house could go screw themselves. Besides, they didn't really use any electricity or water, so it would be like they were never there.   
  
Inside, Gruoch was busy with ancient scrolls and books. Magic, of course. Yet more irony. They were using witchcraft to destroy the curse of a play that used witchcraft to make a mockery of their parents. (Sorry to any witches, no offense meant. Malcolm's little English whore used the witch story to make people hate the Macbeths.) He stood in the door until she noticed him.  
  
"You're back already"  
  
"Aye. They're only reading lines, there wasn't much mischief to be done."  
  
"Oh. Go put some dry clothes on, before you make a mess." She looked back to her book, looking for a solution in its yellowed pages. Before long, Mac came up behind her.   
  
"Did you find anything?"   
  
"Nothing yet."  
  
"Not even a hint?"  
  
"Maybe. We'll see." The funny thing about the curse was that it didn't do anything. It was there, of course, but it had already been done with when Shakespeare wrote the play. The playwrite had included real magic spells in the script, their effect being to capture souls. Naturally, the souls in questions were the Macbeths'. Although their spirits got loose every now and then and caused a little mischief, most of the trouble was Mac's and Gruoch's doing. A lot of the spells Gruoch found to break the curse required a sacrifice, anywhere from knocking sets and backdrops over and things to heavy bloodshed. At one play, their spell lead to the death of five or so actors (who all happened to play Macduff).  
  
In truth, there was a spell she was considering. It was the most likely one she'd come across so far. The trouble was, it needed blood. A whole lot of it. A lot of actors would have to die. And she'd been around for too many performances of Macbeth to think that they would just get away with it.   
  
......  
  
Sorry, I'm, aware it might be a bit melodramatic. I don't know.  
  
Fortunately for fans of Shakespeare and real history alike, I don't own MacBeth. (I made up Mac and Gruoch, though.) 


	2. Chapter 2 the spell

Chapter 2  
  
Gruoch kept Mac at home while the actors got their play together. It wouldn't do any good to interfere until she had worked out their plan. She still wasn't sure if she wanted to use the spell she'd found or not. They'd been troubling actors for almost four-hundred years, ever since they'd first seen the play and found out about the curse, and it was taking effect on them. Mac had trouble sleeping, and sometimes he hallucinated. She had sleeping problems, too. She hoped it was just the play itself getting to them. Wasn't it most likely that being around the play for that long had made them start acting like the fictional versions of their parents? She really hoped that was all it was, but in case it wasn't, she didn't want to burden them with any deaths that could be avoided.   
  
Other than the deaths, the spell was pretty simple. There were no particularly nausiating ingredients in the relatively simple potion, and then there were only a few magic words in Gealic to be spoken over a fire. Fires backstage during performances were difficult to conceal, but they'd done it before, and they'd do it again. After that, it wasn't as clear-cut. Basically, the idea was to start killing people and keep going until something happens. That something should ideally be a fog coming out of the fire and filling the theatre. The magic fog destroys all the magic it can find. It only last aroung five minutes before it destroys itself, too. She had no idea how many murders the spell would take, but the book gave her the impression that it would be a lot.   
  
"Have you found anything?" Mac asked. He didn't understand much magic, so he wasn't any help looking for spells. He was only the troublemaker, whenever one was needed.   
  
"Aye. I think so."  
  
"What is it."  
  
"Just a spell. It's pretty simple."  
  
"So we'll do it, then?"  
  
"It needs blood. A lot of blood."  
  
"Oh." That meant 'I'll do it, if you want. You decide.' Gruoch always decided.   
  
"This could be it, you know. It's the most likely spell I've seen in a long time. "  
  
"The last we'll ever have to do."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"How much blood?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"HOw many murders?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
There was only silence. There wasn't anything to really say. They both knew they would do it. They'd tried every spell they'd found. This would be no different.  
  
Rain beating on the roof filled the silence.   
  
" 


	3. Chapter 3 the Performance

Chapter 3, the Performance  
  
I don't own Macbeth, or else thinks would be really different.  
  
This is violent and descriptive. If you don't want to read descriptions of mindless carnage, stop after the magic words.   
  
....  
  
The actors were ready for their first performance. It was three days late, but they could perform well enough that it was worth waiting for. At least, it was to those who didn't whole-heartedly hate the play.   
  
Mac and Gruoch waited in a dark corner backstage. The spell was ready for the right time to begin. All the ingredients were laid out, the fire was lit. Gruoch knew the magic words by heart. And Mac, to borrow the words of his fictional father, had "bound up every corporeal agent to the deed." They waited in silence, listening to the damned play.   
  
There was no more excitement or nervousness in this for them. Only a hollow ache. It was almost regret, but not really. They were past that. All of their emotion had gone away, bled out with the blood of countless actors.   
  
On stage, the play wore on. "The weird sisters, hand in hand, posters of the sea and land, thus do go about, about! Thrice to thine, thrice to mine, thrice again to make up nine. Peace! The charms wound up." The little chant was a mind-game to Mac. He would pretend that the words bound him to the task ahead, leaving him no opportunity to back out.  
  
To Gruoch, it was a signal to begin the spell. She began to mix the ingredients in a small pot over the flames. The spell didn't call for exact amounts, so she just threw in a hand-full of everything. Then she was done. She wiped her hands on her dress, and spoke the magic words:  
  
ceathach casgair buidseachd.  
  
Mac drew a battered old sword and stepped from the shadows. Almost immediately, a stage hand noticed him and came running over. The man started babbling at him, telling him he couldn't be here, to be quiet and follow him. The charm's wound up, Mac thought, as the point of his sword slipped under the man's ribs and out his back. For an instant they both froze, standing still in a strange kind of wonder. Then Mac pulled the sword back out. The stagehand screamed in agony, clutching uselessly at the wound. Blood gushed from his chest and back, spilling across the floor and props, and Mac. He fell to the floor, letting out a strangled moan as he died.   
  
A woman's shriek shattered the bloody solitude that had built around Mac and his victim. An actress was screaming at the gruesome sight like there was no tomorrow, and in fact, there might not be. Stagehands and actors fled the scene, while security gaurds came running toward him with their guns drawn, yelling. Mac raced to the nearest gaurd, cutting his hand off halfway between the wrist and elbow. The man screamed as blood sprayed from the severed arm, completely defenseless. Mac slashed across the gaurd's belly, and his guts spilled out with the rushing waterfall of blood. The gaurd sank to his knees, taking another gaurd's shot at Mac, who circled behind him and plunged the sword into his heart. The other gaurd gasped in pain, his lifeblood shooting out in a crimson stream to join the smoking pools on the floor.  
  
The next gaurd was too close behind the second to escape, and had his throat cut before he could step back. He did, however, manage to get one shot off, hitting Mac in the shoulder. But he couldn't stop. The charm's wound up. As the third gaurd fell backwards, the fourth was stabbed in the gut, screaming and falling forward, then Mac beheaded him. The other gaurds were beginning to run. Mac gave chase, cutting down two more with slashes to their backs, but eventually gave up the chase because those farther away were shooting as they ran. If he was killed, they couldn't finish the spell.   
  
During the chaos, the curtains had been opened revealing the carnage backstage to a now panicking audiance. The people lost control and swarmed to the exits, trampling each other and blocking the doors in their haste to escape. The actors were torn between rushing past Mac to the backstage entrance, or trying their luck with the audience. Running onto the stage, Mac caught the actor playing Macduff on the edge of his sword, slashing him open and leaving him writhing in agony on the floor, then Ross tried to cut backstage and escape, but Mac caught him and stabbed him in the chest. He died without a word.   
  
In the corner backstage, Gruoch watched the fire anxiously. She didn't watch the slaughter, but she heard the screaming, the death cries, the sound of bodies hitting the floor, and the constant rain of blood. The fire began to flicker blue. It was almost done. "Just a little more!" she called to her brother.  
  
Mac turned to his sister's hiding place briefly. He saw the smoke rising become a bluish silver color. Then he felt a tug at his sword, and the hilt was torn from his grasp. He looked up to find the blade, red with blood, held at his throat by the actor playing Macbeth.   
  
"Just one more!" Gruoch cried backstage, "Just one!"  
  
Mac found himself wondering if his father, the real Macbeth, was watching as this fake MacBeth held Macbeth junior at swordpoint. Which Macbeth will walk away? he thought with a grin. Only one more, he thought. He reached for the dagger tucked in his belt.   
  
Killing your father? asked a little voice in his head. Mac paused, dagger drawn. Fake Macbeth pressed the edge of the blade hard against his throat. Mac threw the knife into the audiance, and heard a scream. It was done.  
  
From backstage, a thick silver-blue fog rolled up out of thin air, and strange whisperings could be heard. The audiance hushed, everyone stood frozen. The magic fog filled the theatre, seeming to stifle all sound and movement. Then it was gone.   
  
The silence however remained. Everybody looked around. No one moved.   
  
"Mother?" voice asked backstage, "Father?"  
  
What was left of the scenery collapsed in response. The curse was still there. So were their parents. They had failed.   
  
Backstage, Gruoch cried silently. All that bloodshed for nothing. It wasn't fair. It was evil.  
  
Were they evil?  
  
Mac stood still. More blood spilled down his bloodsoaked shirt, this time his own. There was a deep gash at one side of his throat, bleeding heavily. Fake Macbeth dropped the sword and stepped backwords in shock. He hadn't planned on hurting anyone. Mac picked up the weapon and walked way, still bleeding. Gruoch followed him. Neither spoke.   
  
Mac would be fine. It was harder than that to kill a demon. Gruoch would find another spell.   
  
Soon, they would return the the bloodsoaked slaughter house they had made of the theatre. 


	4. Chapter 4 the Priest

The Curse Of The Scottish Play  
  
Chapter 4: The Priest  
  
...  
  
I do not own Macbeth.  
  
In case anyone is offended, don't worry. It ends well.  
  
....  
  
"What bloody man is that? He can report, as seemeth by his plight, of the revolt the newest state."  
  
"This is the sergeant, who like a good and hearty soldier fought 'gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend! Say to the king thy knowledge of the broil as thou didst leave it."  
  
"Doubtful it stood, as... eh, ..."  
  
"As two spent swimmers that do cling together and choke their art,"Mac whispered to himself. "Honestly! I'm only here to mess with this godforsaken play and I know it better than him!" He shook his head and looked back down at the rehearsal. His seat on top of the big spotlight gave him an excellent view of the stage. He couldn't believe he'd never thought of climbing up there before.   
  
"But all's too weak; for brave Macbeth -" At his fathers name, Mac kicked the light he was sitting on. The ensuing BANG and the flickering of the light made the actors shudder. He laughed quietly as the captain struggled to pick up his lines again.   
  
He honestly had no idea why he was so happy. He really should be depressed, after killing so many people. But Gruoch hadn't even started looking for another spell, so he was really just goofing around and playing with these poor actors' minds. It was almost a vacation after all that bloodshed.   
  
"Dismay'd not this our captains, Macbeth and -" Mac kicked the light again. " - Banquo?" Duncan practically squeaked the other general's name. Mac could barely contain his laughter.   
  
"What the..? " He heard the door open and close quietly. Looking behind him, he could see that a small man wearing a jacket and carrying a small bag had entered. He had a bad feeling about this guy, but he really had no idea why. The man walked up to the director and waited patiently behind him, not wanting to interrupt the rehearsal.  
  
He didn't have to wait for very long. The director was getting frustrated with the actors and with what he supposed was the curse. "Alright, guys, " he addressed those on stage, "We're not getting anywhere today. Let's pack it up and hope for better luck tomorrow." As the actors began to shuffle off the stage, the strange man tapped the director on the shoulder.  
  
"Excuse me, " he said politely, "Are you Mr. Drey?"  
  
"Huh? Oh, yeah, you must be Mr. McCorrey," Mr. Drey replied, "It's great to meet you, Father."  
  
"Father?" Mac thought. Was this McCorrey man a priest? The idea of a priest involved bothered him. What if he got in the way, or did something stupid. He didn't want to kill anyone from the church. It just seemed wrong, more so than just killing in general. He leaned over the side of the spotlight to listen.   
  
" So, " the director continued, "Do you think you can do anything?"  
  
"Well, it really depends, I'm afraid. I don't know what's causing it all. But I do have a few tricks up my sleeve. Exorcism is an option, and if that doesn't work, I promise I'll do all I can to protect your actors."  
  
Exorcism could be a very bad thing. It didn't sound good at all. Mac scrambled off the lamp, into an air duct, and out of the building. He had to tell Gruoch about this right away. (The light is on the ceiling.)  
  
"What happens in an exorcism?" Mac asked.  
  
"A demon or an evil spirit is driven away," Gruoch told him. She was sitting out in the field enjoying the fresh air. It had been a long time since she'd been away from all her musty old spell books. She hadn't done any reading at all since their last spell's failure.   
  
"How?"  
  
"The exorcist forces the spirit to reveal his name, and then makes it swear in the name of the lord to leave, or do anything else he commands it to. Why?"  
  
"But what happens to the ghost?"  
  
"I don't know. Why do you ask?"  
  
"There's this man who's a priest and he said he might try to exorcise the theatre."  
  
"What?" Gruoch exclaimed. She lay down on the dry grass. "This won't be any good."  
  
"What will we do about it?" Mac asked.  
  
"We'll stay at the theatre tomorrow as long as he's there. That way we can try to stop him from doing anything. Or, if worst comes to worst, we can let him exorcise us instead of Mother and Father."  
  
Mac sat beside her in the field. He had a bad feeling that this wouldn't turn out well.  
  
....  
  
Sorry if it seems like Mr. McCorrey is a bad guy. No offense meant. Church is great. So is exorcism, in some cases. 


	5. Chapter 5 Exorcism

The Curse of the Scottish Play  
  
Chapter 5: Exorcism  
  
......  
  
I don't own Macbeth.  
  
......  
  
Gruoch waited backstage with her brother. They were hiding in a shadowed corner full of old props and crates and dust, listening to the play. She was worried, and sitting there without anything to do about it only made things worse. She told herself that the best plan was to do absolutely nothing for as long as possible, and hope that Mr. McCorrey would simply decide that there wasn't any need to do anything at all.   
  
Actually, she really doubted that would happen. Mac had been terrorizing the actors for the past four days, the first they'd been working on this production, and they were all practically trembling in their boots. Whether they did anything or not, the poor players jumped at every sound and motion, and cringed at the name Macbeth. She should've known to keep Mac at home for a while. It had just been so nice out, and after all that rain at the last theater they'd been at, she'd only wanted to be outside, as far away as from books, magic, and plays as possible. So much for that. She should've known. But, then, on the other hand, what if the priest came anyway? If Mac hadn't been at the theater, they wouldn't have known.   
  
"Is Banquo gone from court?"  
  
"Ay, madam, but returns again tonight."  
  
"Say to the king I would attend his leisure for a few words."  
  
"Madam, I will."  
  
"Nought's had, all's spent, when our desire is got without content. 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy than by destruction live in doubtful joy. " As Macbeth entered the scene, his Lady promptly forgot the rest of her lines. Gruoch had seen much better.   
  
"How now, my lord," Gruoch picked up for the actress in a whisper to her brother. Mac snapped out of some daydream and looked at her. "Why do you keep alone, of sorriest fancies your companions making, using those thoughts that should indeed have died with those they think on. Things without all remedy should be without regard. What's done is done."  
  
"We have but scorched the snake not kill'd it, " Mac replied, "And who said they were sorry fancies? For all you know, I was thinking about going home, sleeping, and then fixing this whole thing with suddenly very obvious solution."  
  
" Anyone but you might be thinking that. How about telling me which bloody murder it is you were moping about. " Suddenly, she heard a footstep behind her and turned around. Mr. McCorrey had come backstage from the door to the right of the stage. Both the demons froze, staring at him. He hadn't seen them yet, but was looking quietly around the stage. Gruoch and Mac shrunk back into the shadows where they were hiding. They held their breath and stood stone still as he glanced at their corner. Then he left.   
  
Mac and Gruoch spent the last few hours of the day in uneasy silence. Then, as the actors left to go home, they crept out and hid among the props still on stage to listen to Mr. McCorrey talk to the director.   
  
"So, " Mr. Drey began, "What do you think."  
  
"Well, it didn't seem like anything was going on. But, I think that there must have been something for all the actors to be so terrified. And it almost seemed like there was something around here, especially backstage."  
  
"So....is there anything we can do for it?"  
  
"I might try an exorcism. That should fix it."  
  
"That's great, Father. When can you do it?"  
  
"Today. That way you can tell everyone tomorrow that there's nothing to worry about."  
  
"That's wonderful! Thanks, thanks a lot." Mr. Drey shook the priest's hand and left the theater. Mr. McCorrey picked up his little black bag and carried it backstage, with Mac and Gruoch behind him. In the middle of the dusty stage, he set down the bag and opened it. He took out a Bible, a cross, a jar of holy water, and a few other items unrecognizable to the demons.   
  
"Lets see, now..." the priest said to himself, flipping through the pages of his Bible. Mac slowly slipped out of their hiding spot and crept up behind Mr. McCorrey. He had his sword, but he didn't want to use it. Killing security guards didn't bother him very much, and he could handle murdering actors and stage hands, but there seemed something special about killing a priest, something that made it as deep a wrong as an be committed, almost. But an exorcism couldn't be allowed, and if the actors came the next day and found poor Mr. McCorrey lying dead, the play would be canceled. Mac was only a few steps away now. "Here it is..." the old man said, opening the Bible to the page he'd found, and picking up the cross.   
  
Mac's hand was on the hilt of his sword, but he couldn't quite bring himself to draw it. He looked back to where his sister was still hiding. She was looking toward them with almost fear. She didn't really know what was happening. They were both a little scared of the whole thing, and neither of them was certain of what to do. But, Mac thought, what else is there to do. He turned back towards his intended victim, but before he could draw, Mr. McCorrey struck at him with a fist clutching a cross. Mac was caught off-guard, but managed to leap back in time to avoid the blow. Mr. McCorrey held the cross at arm's length between himself and Mac. "What's your name?" he demanded. Mac was frozen. Did he really expect an answer? " In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, " Mr. McCorrey thundered, "What is your name?"   
  
Mac opened his mouth to answer, but caught himself. He was shocked that this man, alone and unarmed, could hold more power over him than droves of armed security guards. But then, he thought, staring at the cross, maybe he wasn't unarmed after all. Maybe Mr. McCorrey's power was in the cross and the other things. Without them, maybe he wouldn't be able to do anything. He took hold of the cross and deftly wrenched it from the priest's hand. The cross burned his hand wherever he touched it, but he didn't let go of it. He walked around Mr. McCorrey and dropped it back into the black bag. He picked up the other things and threw them all haphazardly into the bag, then closed it and slid it back across the stage out of reach. Mr. McCorrey seemed surprised, maybe even stunned. Mac grinned with relief. Suddenly, Mr. McCorrey lashed out with a punch that sent him flying several feet before he hit the ground. Mac sprang to his feet, but the priest dove for his bag and found the holy water and flung the bottle at the slightly dazed demon with all his might. It struck him in the face, the breaking glass cutting him. Mac was drenched in holy water that seared his skin more painfully than fire. He cried out in pain and fell again.   
  
Gruoch ran from her hiding spot. She had never thought that Mr. McCorrey would fight back. And even if he had, she'd never seen anyone beat her brother in a fight. She was amazed. But it didn't matter how powerful he was. They had to stop him. She ran onto the stage and threw herself into the priest, who stood over her brother. He was caught off guard, and toppled to the ground. She regained her balance quickly and helped Mac to his feet. "By the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, " Mr. McCorrey screamed, "tell me your names!" Gruoch was amazed that a middle-aged human priest could hold such power. It didn't make sense. Both demons were resolved to kill and confident in their power to do so when they came earlier to stop the exorcism, but his words and the fury behind them had stripped them of determination and courage. She had always believed in the power of faith, but this was incredible.  
  
But so was the power of pain. The holy water had burned through the right side of Mac's shirt so that it was held onto him only by a few scorched rags and his flesh was burned and smoking underneath. He had never been hurt this badly in his life, had never been humiliated since he was named. He had also never lost a fight or failed a mission, and that was one thing he never planned to do, especially not now. With a wild cry, Mac flung himself towards Mr. McCorrey, ramming the priest with his uninjured shoulder and driving him back against the wall, trapping him there with one arm pinned behind his back. Mr. McCorrey held a cross against Mac's already burned side, but the demon knocked it from his grasp and slapped his hand across the priest's mouth to keep him quiet. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he screamed, "We didn't hurt anyone! And here you come to doom our parents so we'll stop kicking the damn light!"  
  
Mr. McCorrey's head was becoming painfully familiar with the theater's brick wall, and it didn't look like Mac had allowed the poor man much room to breath. Suddenly concerned, Gruoch intervened, pulling her brother away from the priest, who sank to the floor. Mac fell, too, when his sister let go of him, and stayed sitting where he fell, his fury exhausted. Mr. McCorrey looked confused and surprised, not seeming to know what to think. Gruoch decided to take advantage of the situation. "Please, sir, listen to us," she asked gently, "Our parents were the Macbeths, and they were good, respectable people, really. And human of course. But when Shakespeare wrote the play, he used real spells, and their souls were trapped here on Earth . We're only trying to break the curse, we won't hurt anyone if we don't have to."  
  
"I'm not falling for any demon's tricks, " Mr. McCorrey snapped, " I believe in the lord, and He tells me that---"  
  
"Mr. McCorrey," Mac interrupted him, rising to stand beside Gruoch. "This is no trick. She told you the truth." There was still doubt and anger in the priest's eyes. "Macamfearnachtill gives you his word."  
  
"And so does Gruoch," his sister added. Mr. McCorrey seemed to believe them. "If you will believe us, then you can tell Mr. Drey that there is nothing to worry about and they won't hear another word from us. Or you can go on with your exorcism and leave our parents trapped here until Judgement Day. It's your choice."  
  
The priest considered it for a long time. Finally he spoke. "What if the curse was broken? Would you stop terrorizing actors and leave the theater forever?" The demons nodded. "Then tomorrow, I'll tell Mr. Drey it's safe, and if neither of you cause any trouble, I'll see if I can help you. But if you so much as make a frightening sound, I'll exorcize you both." He looked cautiously at the two surprised demons. "Do we have a deal?" he asked, offering his hand.   
  
"We do," Mac said, shaking hands with him. 


	6. Chapter 6 Blessing

The Curse of the Scottish Play  
  
Chapter 6: The Blessing  
  
If anyone actually thinks I own Macbeth, they are in need some special help or a lot of coffee.  
  
The next day, Mac and Gruoch sat quietly backstage, doing nothing but waiting, as they had agreed to do after the exorcism attempt of the night before. She sat nervously in the shadowy corner where they hid yesterday. Leaning against the wall, she was deep in thought. Mr. McCorrey had not told the director exactly that the place had been exorcized as she hoped he would. Instead, the honest man said that he had confronted two demons that he hadn't been able to expel yet, but that he was fairly certain that the theater and its actors were safe. She hoped that his honest statement would be enough to calm the terrified actors. She worried that too many starts and disruptions would convince the priest to get rid of them anyway.  
  
Beside her, Mac rested too. Bandages covered his chest and shoulder, and his arm down to the hand where he had been burned by holy water. He was staring off into the darkness between the top of the stage curtains and the ceiling, looking up and into the corner, away from her. She couldn't see his face to tell for sure, but he seemed tense and nervous, too.  
  
He turned to face her. His eyes were full of tired worry, but he offered her a faint smile anyway. She knew he'd been up all the rest of last night. In the many times she'd been startled by nightmares from her shallow sleep between when she'd bandaged his burns to when she'd finally woken up that morning, she'd heard him moaning softly in pain. His injuries were terrible. When they got back to their temporary home, the burn was still smoking, and his flesh was charred black and red and bleeding. It hurt her just to see it.  
  
"Are you okay?" he asked softly.  
  
"I'm fine," she said. Actually, she felt awful, too. She'd slept through most of the night, despite her numerous wakings, but had woken up feeling even more tired than she did when she went to bed. On top of that, she was sore all over. She guessed she must have pulled something or been injured somehow when she's plowed into the fight. But despite how she felt, she wasn't about to let her brother know she was miserable. "It's you I'd be worried about." She looked at him. The cuts and less severe burns on his face where the jar struck him were uncovered. She hadn't even noticed them. "Oh, hell. I can't believe I missed this. Here, hold still." She reached out to touch the injuries.  
  
He winced and drew back from her probing fingers. " If you're worrying about me, then I'll have to worry about you, or who else will?" He caught her wrist in his left hand, holding hers away from his face. " You look tired."  
  
"Like you don't? Hell, you look more dead than tired."  
  
"But that's alright because I'm not dead. I always look this way anyway. Well, without the burns and all. "  
  
"Just don't look like a troublemaker, or we're out of here."  
  
"I'll try not to."  
  
They stayed there the whole day. Neither of them really felt like moving. They listened wearily as the actors ran through the damned play four times and stage hands worked busily, assembling props, backdrops, costumes, posters, and all the odds and ends that went into a play. Gruoch spent an hour or two dozing, with her head reclined on Mac's shoulder. At least she thought it was an hour, because when she asked him how long she'd been asleep, he answered that he didn't know, he had no sense of time. " I told you, you were tired," he said.  
  
The day passed slowly and tensely. It was different from the dull half-guilt they felt before an assault on the actors, which was dulled by repetition, an old wound healed to the point where could be felt only as a sore ache. This was new. They'd never been helpless before. Finally, the last of the actors left for home, the engines of their cars humming reassurances to the hiding demons as the growled to life and carried their drivers home. Mr. McCorrey strode calmly backstage, glancing around the dusty space and waiting expectantly. Gruoch stood, and helped her brother to his feet. Together they crept from the shadows to meet him.  
  
"Well, at least you're here, " he said stiffly, "Maybe if I can trust a devil that far, I can trust it to keep the rest of its word. God help me," he sighed. " I couldn't find anything on how to end a spell without destroying the witch herself, which, in this case, is impossible. But I hope that a prayer, and a blessing on the trapped souls will, with God's help, be enough. I don't suppose either of you have ever prayed before. " They shook their heads. Their clan, though surrounded by a Christian culture, had retained the old Celtic beliefs. "Very well. On your knees." They hastily obeyed. "Now bow your head, close your eyes. Fold your hands in front of you, like you were begging for mercy. "  
The demons complied immediately. "Listen silently to what I say and when I'm done, say 'amen' ."  
  
The priest continued in a soft, comforting tone. "Lord, "he said, "We thank you for keeping the actors in this play safe today, and for the good work that was accomplished without interference. We thank for these monsters' keeping their word and their willingness to pray. Good Lord, we ask that you bless the souls of their parents, Macbeth and ...his wife. Please forgive their sins, and free them from the curse that has held them here on Earth. Amen."  
  
"Amen," Mac and Gruoch murmured uncertainly. They continued kneeling, waiting for more.  
  
"You can get up now, " Mr. McCorrey told them. "How will we know if it worked?"  
  
"Mother?" Gruoch called, as she rose. The heavy stage curtains rippled and swayed in a gust of wind blowing from nowhere. "Father?" A mighty knocking the walls answered her. She hung her head in disappointment. "They're still here."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
Another sharp rap sounded in the brick wall. "Yes."  
  
"Don't worry about it. We've been trying for centuries, and we haven't been able to free them either, " Mac said, beginning to get up. "We'll keep up our end of the bargain just the same."  
  
"Wait a minute, "the priest said softly. He sounded sympathetic, "Stay where you are, Macamfearnachtill. " He stopped standing and returned to his knees. Mr. McCorrey walked to him and placed his hand upon his head. " This may well be the most painful thing you'll feel if you aren't telling the truth. You come here too, " he called to Gruoch, who quickly came to her brother's side and knelt again, as he laid his other hand on her brow. "Dear Lord, I ask you to bless and keep these demons--" A jolt of pain raced through the pair kneeling before him, almost unbearable. They instinctively jerked away, but he had them, and continued praying. "--hold them to their word, and guide them on their mission to free their parents--" Almost instantly, the pain stopped, and was replaced by a dull glowing sense of joy. It erased the pain that they'd just felt like a lightning bolt, even eased the pain of Mac's burns. "--and keep them safe in their travels. Help them to do the right thing whatever they're faced with. Amen." They looked up at him, puzzled. But happy to be puzzled. It had been a long time since they'd been happy about anything. There was another series of knocks at the brick, and a peaceful gust. It seemed their parents were happy as well to have their heathen children blessed.  
  
Mac took the old priest's hand. "Goodbye, Father McCorrey," he said, standing. "And thank you. I hope your Lord will do as much and better for you."  
  
Gruoch rose too. "Amen." With that the two demons turned and left, with only one last parting glance at their recent adversary. Mr. McCorrey never saw them again, but almost a month later, he still led his congregation in prayer asking God for the Macbeths', and their children's, freedom. 


	7. Chapter 7 Mac the Thanelet

The Curse of the Scottish Play

Chapter 7: Mac the Thane-let ......  
  
Still don't own Macbeth. ......  
  
Macamfearnachtill lay on his back on the theater roof, staring up at the dark swirling rainclouds. The rehearsals had already ended for the day without him doing anything. It almost bothered him, but he didn't have the will to move. The long weeks since their encounter with Mr. McCorrey were hard and sleepless, spent wandering along, searching for the next production of the damned play. They'd finally found this one, and had decided to stay in the building itself until they were rested. Gruoch had led him up the stairs to hide on the roof, and he'd laid down were he was and didn't move since then.  
  
Mist hung around them like a cold, damp blanket, twisting around the icy wind. The theater roof was freezing, but his tired body couldn't feel it, except for where the ground felt cool against his stinging burns. Gruoch lay asleep in a pile of old rags she'd gathered from somewhere. He was glad. She deserved to sleep. The joy they'd felt after Mr. McCorrey's blessing didn't last long, and it's going left him lost and more depressed than ever. If it weren't for his sister, he realised he'd probably be dead, or worse. She had ended up leading him by the hand most of the way as he stumbled behind her in a daze, and when they'd arrived at the theater the night before, she had watched over him for a few hours as he collapsed into a kind of half-consciousness, the nightmares from which had haunted him for the rest of the time he'd lain there. Now finally got up and dragged himself over to where Gruoch slept to return the favor.  
  
She lay on old costumes stolen from the theatre, curled up cat-like on her side, her back against the walls of the little brick room containing the stairs to the roof. Her breathing was deep and slow and gentle, and he wondered how she could seem so fair and angelic when he felt more like a loathsome, unholy demon than ever. He slipped out of ragged old flannel jacket and laid it over her for a blanket. He wanted to keep her warm, and the cold didn't bother him any. He felt numb all over anyway. Looking down, he noticed that the bandages covering his burns were coming off. It was healing fairly quickly, but was still painful when something brushed against his arm. He readjusted the dangling rags, and then let his hands lay still at his sides as he slumped against the brick wall.  
  
As he sat at his sister's side, his thoughts turned back to the priest and his blessing. He remembered the searing pain at first, the euphoria it had brought, the rapping in the theater walls announcing their father's proud approval. He had carried that glowing joy with him for almost a week before it turned bitter. It wrapped its warm golden self around his heart, sharing with him endless strength and comfort. For that time he slept a lot more than usual, and felt better. Gruoch seemed happy, too. She still seemed happy, except that she was concerned about him. It made him feel all the worse to know he was stealing the blessing away from her, too. He tried to remember what exactly had killed it, but could only remember realising something suddenly. Something that changed everything, that killed everything, that killed him. Countless victims he'd butchered over the years hurled themselves from his imagination to confront him again. Mr. McCorrey was with them, blood gushing from the deadly wound Mac had intended to make, but never did, and voices he had never heard in his life but knew instictively belonged to his mother and father called out to him for help. He hadn't slept since then; he'd only sunk into trances, Gruoch told him, which she always shook him out of with fear in her voice and tears in her eyes.  
  
He was glad his sister could sleep, though. She deserved it. Before, during sleepless nights, he'd often have to lead her back to bed when she walked in her sleep, reassuring her with whispers he doubted she could hear, so it was comforting to him that as far as he'd ruined her happiness, she could at least sleep soundly still. She would not have to feel that she was already dead and not able to stop and die, like he did, or feel the stiffness in her joints and the cold in her breast that had made his own body a dungeon from which his soul could not escape, assuming he had a soul. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what it was he had thought of that had brought such pain upon him.  
  
"Hush, my little thane-let, " a hoarse voice whispered in his ear and he felt the touch of a dry, withered hand on his head, exactly where the priests' blessing, damning palm had touched him. "My little killer of actors."  
  
Mac's tired eyes snapped open. There was nothing there. The only thing that brushed his dark unruly hair was the cold wind, which most certainly hadn't called him its little murderer. The roof was still and empty except for the fluttering tidbits of paper and garbage that had been left there and the dancing fog. He eyed the area warily all the same for several minutes, before he leaned back against the wall again, still looking, but doubting that it was anything but another hallucination. Suddenly, invisible fingers rested on his uninjured arm, the way a man might show sympathy to his friend. He tensed against the touch, pressing his back against the wall. "It's alright, little thane-let," a new voice crooned by his side, " murderer for your father."  
  
The transparent hand fell away, and Mac scrambled to his feet. He forced his tired body into a fighting stance in front of his sister and reached behind his back for the dagger he usually kept tucked in his belt. It wasn't there. He couldn't remember what had happened to it. Then he saw it hovering in front of him, as if held the grasp of some invisible creature. The lines from the play, "Is this a dagger I see before me, the handle towards my hand?" echoed through his head as he reached almost involuntarily towards the rusty weapon. His trembling fingers hovered over the wooden hilt, carved with worn and faded Celtic symbols, until a hand he could not see snatched his wrist and thrust the dagger into his grasp. " Don't worry, poor thane-let, " the voice hissed as his fingers closed around it, "Unhappy breaker of curses. "  
  
The hand still closed around his wrist pushed back, pinning his hand and the dagger against his chest and throwing him back sprawling on the rooftop. He lifted his head enough to look where he had just been standing, but he saw nothing but swirling mist.  
  
He lay there, propped up a little on the elbow of his left arm, staring into the empty space.  
  
Gruoch awoke slowly, edging slowly back to consciousness. She thought she heard the thud of a falling body and voices talking. They were not the same hideous and accusing cries that used to haunt her nightmares, rather a familiar one, peircing the muffling shroud of sleep from the waking world outside. As she began to come alive, she recognized the speaker as her brother.  
  
Worried, she sat up on her improvised bed, his ragged coat sliding off her side as she rose. She found Mac lying on the cold rooftop, his left arm against the cold cement raised his boney shoulders off the ground, and his dagger clutched in his burned right hand. His face was away from her, but she could tell he was facing straight ahead over the edge of the builting and into the mist, and he spoke in a low steady voice. "..the handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see the still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation proceding from the heat oppressed brain..."  
  
"Mac!" she cried in alarm. She got to her hands and knees and scrambled out of the pile of old costumes to her brother's side. His golden-yellow eyes stared unseeingly away. He didn't move, didn't stop speaking, didn't even realise she was there. It was another trance. "Mac, stop. Snap out of it. Mac!"  
  
" There's no such thing. It is the bloody business that informs thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse the curtained sleep. Witchcraft celebrates pale Hecates offerings, and withered murder alarumed by his sentinel the wolf, whose howls his watch.."  
  
She grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. "Mac! Wake up, come on! Mac!" He did not pause his eerie speech or change the direction of his empty stare.  
  
"Thou sure and firmset earth, hear not my steps which way they walk, for fear thy very stones prate of my whereabouts and take the present horror of the time which now suits with it. While I threat he lives, words to heat of deeds too cold breath gives..."  
  
"Macamfearnachtill, stop it!" Gruoch finally cried. She knew her brother hated his real name, but after waiting out the first few terrifying trances, she'd discovered that it would more often than not bring him back. Even so, she was reluctant to use it, since for the past eight and a quarter centuries she'd become accustomed to avoiding it. He suddenly fell silent, his eyes dropping down to his chest and then looking back up at her fearfully. She still had him by his shoulders, and bent down, pressing her face against the fabric of his old t-shirt as her clear blue eyes began to fill with tears of relief. "You did it again," she cried into his skeletal chest.  
  
" Gruoch," he gasped, beginning to shudder as he remembered the events leading up to the trance, "There where voices, and they called me a thane-let, and then the took my dagger and help it up like in the play and then when they gave it back they pushed me and you woke up. I'm so sorry, Gruoch, I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep and I'll watch you to make sure nothing else wakes you up. "  
  
"Mac, you were only hallucinating again," she told him, anxiously, raising her head to look him in the face. "You do it all the time. "  
  
"No, Gruoch, they touched me! Here." He lifted his hand and set it on it forhead, his long pale fingers sliding into his dark red hair. Then he let it drop across his chest to his other arm. "And thn here, and she grabbed my hand...." His trembling voice trailed off.  
  
" You imagined it," she said gently. " Jesus, Mac, you're so cold. Here, lie down." She attempted to set him back against the roof while she reached over for his jacket, but he wouldn't stay. He sat bolt upright again as she laid it over him.  
  
"No! You have to keep that and stay warm and sleep! I'm fine!"  
  
"You are not fine, you're freezing. And if you can't feel it, it's because you're half-dead already, now lay still!" She pushed him down again, and draped the coat over him as far as she could without moving her hand. "Will you stay or do I have to sit on you all night?"  
  
" I want you to be warm," he whispered.  
  
" Do you see that pile of old clothes I've been sleeping on? I don't need your damn shirt. Now hush. " She lifted her hand. Mac didn't move. She took some costumes of the pile and covered herself with them as she lay down next to him. "There, see? I'm fine."  
  
"Gruoch, they called me a thane-let. And a killer of my father and a murderer for actors and a cursed breaker of happiness. "  
  
"Hush. They did not. They only exist in your head. Try and go to sleep, Mac."  
  
They sat silently for a while, listening to the sounds of the night. Suddenly, Gruoch sat up, her head cocked to hear some distant sound.  
  
"You heard it, too," Mac said.  
  
"Shut up, Mac," she said, lying down. " It was only a bird. " She fell asleep telling herself she hadn't heard a wild and eerie cackling.


	8. Chapter 8 Like Father Like Son

The Curse of the Scottish Play 

Chapter 8:   
Like Father Like Son

Macbeth belongs to Shakespeare, who is too dead to know what the hell I'm doing.

Gruoch sat on top the brick room, watching her brother. Her legs were folded under her and she sat up straight in an almost feline pose. She looked worriedly down to where Mac sulked in the shadows, one leg dangling over the edge of the roof while the other was pulled up so that his arm rested on his knee. He hadn't moved for a long time, reminding her of a ragged version of one of those little statues people left beside their garden ponds to gaze forever at the surface.

The pond Mac stared at was a churning river of mist. The fog had not yet cleared up, becoming so thick at times that Gruoch could barely see the rooftop around her. The air was cold and smelled like rain, promising the two demons a miserable, if not deadly, night if they were still there when the rain finally broke loose. She didn't intend to be, or at least she was sure they wouldn't be on the roof. At worst, they would move into the building, taking shelter among the props in the dusty old storerooms.

She was hoping, though, that they wouldn't have to stay in the theatre long. She had planned to get to a production as soon as possible and get Mac into the action again, even if it was only to retry an old spell they'd done a while before. Her thought was to get him to stop thinking about Mr. McCorrey and their failure to pray away the curse. After she'd heard him muttering darkly in his trances about stolen blessings and cruel, hell-born traitors, she'd wanted to get him killing for the solution again so he wouldn't feel he'd double-crossed their parents anymore. But now that he's starting reciting lines from the play, she changed her mind, not wanting to bring him any closer to it.

The only thing she was completely certain of was that her brother had lost his mind. She knew exactly when it had happened, but she didn't know how. For maybe five days after they'd left the last theater and Mr. McCorrey behind, they'd been as happy as ever. It had been like their childhood, roaming freely through the Highlands and creeping through ruined castles. They were cheerful and well-rested as they searched for another theatre, until one night when they had built a fire in the woods to stay warm through the cold, dark hours, and Mac had been thinking hard about something. She didn't ask what it was. " Wouldn't you have thought," he asked thoughtfully, "That if a blessing could do this much for us, it could have freed our parents?" She remembered his tone exactly. It was cold and empty, the words slow and deliberate.

The question had caught her off guard. She hadn't given their latest failure much thought. "No, not really," she answered lightly, "There must be long way between making people happy and breaking curses."

He didn't reply, but made a short thoughtful sound, almost a grunt but softer and more drawn out. He had been this way, depressed and insane, since then. The first of his trances had begun at some ungodly hour of that morning.

His behavior didn't scare her all that much. He had been moody like that for a long time, although not as much so. Even the trances were only much more intense reappearances of former periods of staring and muttering. The ones before, though, were light enough that they would end abruptly in few minutes or as soon as someone said his name. What really bothered her was that Mac didn't seem to know what was wrong himself. Not only did it indicate some deep mental issues, but it meant that she couldn't do a thing. All she could do know was to try and keep him safe and alive until she could figure out how to help him. The other thing that scared her was that Mac was beginning to act almost exactly like Shakespeare's cursed and immortalized version of their father, even repeating some of his lines, so that Gruoch wondered whether he'd acquire the character's thirst for blood as well.

Standing up, she turned and slid off the edge of the little stair-house and wandered to her brother's side. She sat down beside him, crossing her legs in front of her like a yoga student and waiting silently with her hands resting in her lap.

Mac looked up at her, his golden eyes hollow and tired. "Our father wasn't even a Thane, Gruoch," he said softly, "He was a Mormear. How could we be thane-lets if he wasn't a Thane?"

" I don't think we are, Mac," She said gently, " Who said we were?"

"They did."

"Who?"

"Three of them. The ones from yesterday."

" But who were they? "

He looked back over the edge of the roof. "...they met me in the day of success and I have learned by perfectest report that they have more in them than mortal knowledge..." His voice trailed off, and he looked back up. "Do you know what they told me?"

Gruoch shook her head. "Mac, they don't exist. You were hallucinating."

" Cause I told you when you woke up but I mixed them up. We kill actors for our father and break curses but we're their poor sad little thane-lets. If we aren't thane-lets, do you think we can be everything else?"

"Mac, I think you should try to get some rest. You don't look too good," she said her voice beginning to tremble. He was very pale, making the cuts and burns on his face, the healing gash from his encounter with the frightened actor, the dark patches beneath his eyes seem much more obvious. His dark red hair, so dark it was almost black, hung over his forehead, casting jagged shadows over his face. He looked like something from a nightmare, something from the deepest darkest depths of William Shakespeare's imagination. He looked like a Macbeth, with all the inaccurate connotations of the name, a damned, murdering, psychopath.

"I'm fine, don't worry about me." His voice was dead. "You look worried. Why?" he asked staring into her face.

" I just thought you looked a little sick, that's all," she said. "Here, hold still." She reached out and pressed the back of her hand against his brow. He was freezing cold. "Jesus," she whispered, "Your like ice! Aren't you cold?"

He brushed her hand away roughly, shaking his head. " No, Gruoch, I'm fine." He wrapped his skeletal fingers around her wrist, his hand like a band of frozen steel against her skin, and forced her hand against her own face, " You're just too hot. See?" He released her, her hand dropping as far as her throat and hovering there nervously. " Maybe you should lie down."

Slowly, she reached out and took his chilling hand in her trembling one. "I want you to come with me, Mac," she said, starting to rise. The fear in her voice was obvious now. Her brother didn't move, only looked up at her.

"Where?"

"Inside. I just want to make sure to stay warm."

"I am warm. I want to stay out here."

"Mac, please!"

"Alright." He rose and followed her towards the stair house. Gruoch picked up the pack she carried from theater to theater, bidding him to do the same. He obeyed, and she led him down the stairs to the old storeroom where she'd found the old costumes.

"Here," she said finally, pushing him to the floor against the wall. "Just stay here and don't move. I'll be right back." Her words were quick and racing with fear. She found another old costume from the dusty pile and threw it over him, and then dashed around the room, looking for something to burn that would not set the whole building on fire. Looking around, she saw a metal pail. Grabbing it, she ran back to where Mac was waiting, where she filled it up with rags and pieces of wooden props. Taking a match from her pack, she lit the bucket's contents on fire.

"This is a little much, isn't it, Gruoch?" Mac asked. He had been watching her the whole time, his expression blank and his eyes empty. He leaned back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, the same way he was sitting when she had pushed him. Only his head moved to watch her as she made a fool of herself. He was like a puppet that wasn't designed to move at all, only to talk, a ventriloquist's dummy played expertly by Shakespeare's image of their father. "Maybe we should put the fire out. I don't want you to get too hot. If your brain gets hot, daggers come out of it."

"No, Mac, your the only one who has knifes popping out of his head."

Mac looked at her a moment, then smiled, his grin splitting his devilish features. "No. What about the man I stabbed in England. There's a knife in his head."

"That was almost three hundred years ago. He doesn't have a head anymore. He's all dirt now. And the knife is in your belt right now!"

The smile faded, and her brother looked around the room, terrified. " He's here. He's here right now, with the knife in his head and all on fire, and he laughs at me cause now he can sleep forever and I can't even shut my eyes but they all crowd around me and scream bloody murder all dripping with blood and torn open and their guts falling out and I didn't even notice how bad it was when I killed them but know I have to look at them all the time cause sometimes when I open my eyes they're still there and still screaming and no one helps me get away from them and you just look at me like you think they'll tear me to pieces but you only think I'm cold when I'm not and bring me inside but they're still here and Mother and Father are crying and those three... there are three of them who scared me yesterday and they're here, they're here, they're here!" The words tumbled out of him one after another at a terrible speed, and as he ranted he moved back against the wall, pushing himself against the smooth painted surface as if he were trying to shrink into it. He lifted a shaking hand and pointed over his sister's head, crying, "Gruoch, look out, they're here!"

Gruoch had almost never seen such total fear and panic on her brother's face, and it terrified her to hear him rambling and screaming about the imagined ghosts that haunted him, so much like the jeering blood-soaked throng that cursed her in her nightmares. For a moment she was caught up in the intensity of his fear and spun around, her heart leaping and bounding in her chest. She froze as she found herself staring into a withered face. The old woman's coarse gray hair hung wildly around her face. Icy blue eyes looked cruelly back into hers. "Hello, little Lady," the crone said, revealing toothless gums as she spoke. "You're so like your mother!"

Gruoch whirled around to look for her brother. He stood silent and unmoving against the wall, his back rigid. He was dead still, not shaking anymore, not breathing, his expression blank, his eyes locked in an empty stare. Two more hags sat at either side of him, their hands on his tense body, as though they were holding him back, but she knew they weren't. She recognized the look on his face. It was another trance. No one needed to hold him in that position. He would stay that way until it was over. Still, she didn't like the way they leaned on him like was their toy, a foolish statue, or a horse or dog of theirs. Their withered fingers traced his ribs through his shirt and felt where there used to be flesh that had melted away as he sunk into madness, probing healing injuries, ruffling his hair. "Get away from him!" she barked at the witches, prepared to launch herself at them and tear them to shreds if she had to. "Macamfea--"

The first hag, the one behind her, clapped a knobby, ancient hand over her mouth before she could finish calling her brother's name. Gruoch turned again. "So, so like your mother..," her voice was dripping, and the malicious look on her face made Gruoch choke on her fear. She lay her free hand on the young demon's brow. "Just go to sleep, Lady..."

Mac found himself staring off at the opposite wall. The ghosts were gone. He wondered a moment where they went. They had been below them beside building earlier that morning, trying to leap up out of the mist to snatch him and kill him and scatter the pieces of his mangled hide through the theater, but they hadn't been able to jump high enough until Gruoch brought him inside, and then they'd climbed over edge of the roof and followed them. Now they were gone. He closed his eyes and shook his head to see if they were just waiting to rattle out of his brain, but they didn't. He shuddered, vaguely feeling as though he had been touched by something even filthier than himself, his privacy invaded a thousand times over, and his body caressed by some ghastly thing of which he had no memory. He decided he didn't want to remember, and tried harder to shake the feeling off. Opening his eyes, he jumped with alarm. Gruoch was lying on the floor, sprawled out on her back as if she'd fainted or been dropped there by someone. He went to her side as fast as he could, kneeling beside her. Her easy, if a bit rapid, breathing reassured him very little, and he desperately wanted to know if she was okay. He laid his hand gently on her shoulder, but loathed to wake her. As he hesitated, she stirred, opening her clear blue eyes and lifting her head.

"Mac?" she asked groggily, "What...?" Remembering, she leapt upright. "Oh, God, what happened? Where are they?" She looked wildly around the dusty space.

"They're gone," he answered, "I think they went back in my head." He sat back and waited for her to calm down.

"No, the witches are real, Mac, I saw them, too." She looked hard at him. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

"I'm okay, Gruoch. I'm not even cold. They aren't the ones who want to hurt me. Are you alright? Are you too hot?"

"No, I'm fine, they just....they were...if they did anything to you I'll kill them. I mean it. Are you sure you're alright?" She looked at him, trying to judge if he had been harmed, but she couldn't tell. She did notice, though, that he was no longer wearing the worn jeans and patched plaid jacket he had on earlier. Instead, his kilt was belted around his waist, it's gray-blue, green, and yellow tartan marking him as a part of the Tiamhaidh clan, and his rough wool shirt covered his boney frame. A  ragged plaid ran over his left shoulder, and old worn pieces of leather were tied around his skinny legs. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Huh?" He looked down, a look of fear spreading across his face. "I don't know. I wasn't earlier. Gruoch, I don't know what happened." He drew his bare knees up almost to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The course fabric of his old sweater absorbed his tears as he pushed his face against his arms, frightened and surprised by the sudden appearance of the kilt he'd longed to wear for years. "Gruoch, I don't know. Help me, Gruoch," he moaned.

He felt her hand on his shoulder and looked up. She had come to sit beside him. "It's alright, Mac. Don't worry." Her hand burned like a hot coal against him, but it was comforting to know she was there.

"But if I got dressed and didn't even know it, how do I know I didn't do anything else?"

"I'm not sure it was you that changed your clothes," his sister growled, disgust and hatred thick in her voice, "And I don't know what else they might have done either. Or why they'd want to dress you up like this."

"The witches?"

Gruoch didn't answer.

He dropped his head again. "I will tomorrow (And betimes, I will) to the weird sisters: more shall they speak; for I am bent to know by the worst means the worst. For mine own good all causes shall give way..."

"Macamfearnachtill, stop it," Gruoch snapped.

"Don't call me that," he said without moving."

"Huh? Weren't you just in a trance?"

"No. I was just talking."

"But you were quoting the play!"

He looked up. "Do I do that when I..." His voice trailed off.

"Yes, almost every time now." He was silent for a while. "Are you sure you weren't in one just now?"

He nodded. Gruoch shivered. "Well, never mind then. Listen, you try your best to sleep tonight. And try to remember that if you see the ghosts, they aren't there, they can't hurt you. It'll be alright. We'll figure all this out tomorrow morning."

"Gruoch?"

"M?"

"Thank you."

"Any time, Mac," she whispered as they lay down to try to sleep.


End file.
